


Overcooked

by TurtleTotem



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paschal has a salve, Post-The Summer Palace, Sunburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:24:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: Laurent gets sunburned at the Summer Palace. (On Tumblrhere.)
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 167





	Overcooked

Damen was still learning all the intricate contradictions that comprised Laurent’s personality—learning, and taking pleasure in every discovery, every new twist to an already twisted mind.

But one thing he had observed months ago: the seeming incompatibility between Laurent’s intense and hard-won intimacy in bed, and his lurking streak of exhibitionism.

“If I’m ashamed of anything,” Laurent had said mildly, the last time Damen protested his shoving Damen onto the bed in full view of two servants, “it is certainly not you, nor this. I tend to count them both among my highest accomplishments.”

“A child’s urine ending up in the proper pot is an accomplishment, yet one that few people care to see.”

“You are somewhat more attractive than a pot of urine.”

“You say the sweetest things to me, Laurent.”

Today he had found a way to satisfy them both, by sternly clearing the gardens of workmen and leading Laurent out under the trees with a blanket and a bottle of oil.

Afterward, they fell asleep together on the blanket, Laurent on his back, Damen beside him with an arm flung over his torso. And when they woke, Damen was merely overwarm in the afternoon sun, whereas Laurent was burned scarlet everywhere but Damen’s handprint on his stomach.

“I knew Akielos would betray me,” Laurent muttered as he made his mincing way across their chamber to the bed. “I was a fool to let down my guard.”

Making heroic attempts not to laugh, Damen pulled back the top blanket, which was heavily textured and would be murderous on burned skin, and helped Laurent settle onto the cool sheets. “I’ve sent for Paschal. I’m sure he’ll give you a salve.”

Laurent met his grin with a glare, but a smile lurked deep inside it. Damen leaned down to pepper his mouth with kisses until he drew that smile out.

_“Ow,” _Laurent said, and Damen sat back, both of their faces now full of frustration.

Paschal did indeed provide a salve. “You can apply this as often as you wish, Your Highness,” he said. “Try to drink more water than usual. Willow tea will help the pain.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Damen said, taking the little pot of salve, and saw the physician out.

“Now lie still,” Damen said, turning to the bed as soon as Paschal had gone, and felt Laurent’s breath catch as he hopped onto the bed and swung a leg over him, hovering carefully above his body.

“Even you,” Laurent said, “cannot hold that position for very long, and when you collapse on me and I scream in pain, my guards will have you full of swords before I have regained the breath to stop them. Assuming I even wanted to stop—” Damen began spreading salve over the reddest parts of Laurent’s face, lingering over his lips, and Laurent’s words cut off, becoming a tiny sound of relief.

Damen didn’t say a word, but couldn’t contain a smug smile as he continued, Laurent going limp and breathless beneath him. He was not, of course, in any danger whatsoever of collapsing on Laurent, and they both knew it. He suspected that Laurent liked knowing it, that ‘feats of strength’ were close to the top of an important list in Laurent’s head.

“You spent enough time fussing over me, when I was injured, now it’s time to return the favor,” Damen said, moving now to Laurent’s shoulders and chest—gently, gently, his fingertips barely brushing hypersensitive skin.

“I am hardly at death’s door.” The words were an effort, unsteady.

Damen rolled his eyes. “Neither was I.”

“Paschal thought differently. You could not see yourself.”

“And you can’t see yourself now,” Damen murmured, “poor overcooked thing. Don’t worry, Laurent. I am here to look after you.” He ran salve-slick thumbs softly over Laurent’s nipples, and grinned as Laurent swore, thrashed, swore again as thrashing backfired.

“I think you had better hold still before you hurt yourself,” Damen said serenely. Laurent sagged back onto the bed, muttering vicious invective in his own language, and closed his eyes.

Damen left off tormenting him for the moment, earnestly focused on coating the vast burned area with salve. From less serious incidents, they’d already discovered that Laurent’s skin would not tan, only burn and then peel away, just as white underneath as when he’d begun. Perhaps, after a sunburn this catastrophic, it would consent to at least freckle? Damen found he liked that idea—patternless sprays of golden-brown, like seeds flung across a field for Damen to harvest, tracing them with lips and fingertips…

“Distractible,” Laurent said, raising an eyebrow without opening his eyes. Damen hadn’t even realized his hands had slowed, grown less purposeful and more caressing.

“Rude of me,” Damen said, “when it’s you who need distracting from your predicament.” He repositioned himself beside Laurent’s body, leaned down and brushed soft lips across the pale handprint on his stomach. He felt Laurent tense against pain that didn’t come, then relax into something like a snort.

“That particular spot,” he said, “is not one conducive to the activity you’re thinking of.”

“Hmm,” Damen said, noncommitally, and started applying salve again—this time lower down, to a spot which was just as burned as the rest of him, but which had nonetheless already started responding to his ministrations.

Laurent’s hands fisted in the sheets. “That’s not,” he said, and didn’t finish.

“Do you want me to stop?” Damen said. “Or just… slow down…?” He kept his touch as light and gentle as if trying to catch soap bubbles from the air without popping them, and Laurent made a tiny keening noise in the back of his throat.

“Don’t stop,” he rasped. Damen smiled, and didn’t stop.

It took a long time, even by Laurent’s standards, but Damen was finally learning patience. It was always worth it in the end, with Laurent, and today was no exception. When Laurent’s breath quickened, the muscles of his thighs trembling, his fingers twisted white-knuckled into the sheets—when that moment came, it was just as good, in its way, to watch Laurent as it was to experience it himself.

A good thing, that, since Damen looked unlikely to get anything out of the exchange, physically speaking. Laurent remained limp as Damen carefully, carefully cleaned him up; he seemed incapable of anything more than a shy, sleepy smile. To his surprise, Damen found himself happy to simply lie down beside Laurent and touch his hair.

“I should…” Laurent made a clumsy, obviously painful movement with his hand.

“No.” Damen brushed a kiss against Laurent’s hair, then against the pale edge of an ear that hair had shaded, then very gently at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fine. Sleep.” The neglected throb between his legs would subside. He supposed he could take care of it himself, without Laurent’s participation, but that seemed very unappealing.

“The pain is much improved,” Laurent said, so precisely that Damen knew any other man would have slurred. “I think we should continue this course of treatment.”

Damen’s mouth tipped up. “I agree,” he said, and settled his hand into his own pale handprint on Laurent’s stomach, to rise and fall with his breath as they both drifted off to sleep.


End file.
